


Dreaming of Belegaer

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for B2MeM Challenge I18 on my 'Talents and Skills' Bingo card. It's only about 3 minutes long but this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By8K5mKSwDA"><b>video about making rope</b></a>was really interesting (and clearly influenced a chunk of this *g*).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Dreaming of Belegaer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MeM Challenge I18 on my 'Talents and Skills' Bingo card. It's only about 3 minutes long but this [**video about making rope**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By8K5mKSwDA)was really interesting (and clearly influenced a chunk of this *g*).

The dinner break was almost through as a small gust of summer breeze blew across the yard. He stole a quick glance to the South toward where the waters of Belfalas beckoned not needing to see it to picture its beauty, sapphire blue and cresting white foam. Drawing in a deep breath of sea-tinged air, he rubbed his calloused hands against his legs, dusting off a few bread crumbs in the process. It'd been a busy morning, running looped sisal string down the ropewalk to the wheel, turning it to create the strands, still manning the wheel as his fellow apprentice guided the strands through the top, always mindful of their master's watchful eye. Yet they were still behind, only having finished about a mile of rope, and he did not look forward to increasing the pace.

This was a good position, one he was grateful to have and an important craft to learn. But it bored him, as a dog can grow tired of its bone. What he yearned for was the open sea, to set sail on one of the great ships docked at the quay, to harden his hands on a rope held taut by the wind and the pull of the waves. Soon he'd be jogging up and down the walk once more, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he'd imagine it was the sting of salt and sea spray, picture himself running from bow to stern rather than along dusty rutted tracks. One day he would follow the rope away from Linhir, cast his eyes to the horizon and see nothing but the Sundering Seas before him.


End file.
